


Getting to Know You

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Cornwall, Dinner at Grantham House, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: One evening during his second visit to her after the events of At World's End, the innkeeper asks Barbossa to tell her about his family and where he comes from.





	1. Tell Me Who You Are, Hector

**Author's Note:**

> A short postscript follows each chapter. Meanwhile… 
> 
> Though his schooling was in English, Barbossa and all his relatives were Cornish-speakers, as was most of the community he came from. The language remained very much alive during his lifetime, although it began to fall out of use later. Not having been home for decades and with no reason to speak it, Barbossa has lost much of his fluency, but a strong lilt remains in his English and he still habitually identifies the language in its Cornish form: _Kernowek_. I've put a link in the story if you'd like to hear what it sounds like.
> 
> The deadly winter storm that wreaked horrific destruction in Barbossa's hometown, not to mention half of Cornwall, was very real. For the sake of being able to use it the story, I've changed the date when it happened from January 19 & 20, 1817, to the mid-1690s, but Hector's description of the damage it did is historically accurate.

 

 

 

-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
Grantham House, for once, is packed with lodgers, and the innkeeper is run off her feet.  Fortunately, Barbossa is also there and he sets himself the task of keeping order at the table when three men become querulous at supper.  "She'll get t' ye, gents!"  he snaps when they grumble that the innkeeper isn't fast enough coming up with the food.  "She's been workin' herself down t' nothin' in yer service, an' she don't charge ye nearly as much as she should;  can ye not have two minutes' more conversation an' give her time t' get ev'rythin' ready?"  
  
They might be inclined to snarl back that it's none of Barbossa's damn business if they want to complain, until one of them realizes who he is.  "Your ship, eh?  Th' one with black sails?"  
  
"Aye.  What of it?"  
  
The two men glare at each other, and the stranger finally backs down, his tone considerably more — not exactly friendly, but more respectful — when he speaks again.  "Hm.  I've seen you here before, a few months ago:  this island, this inn."  
  
Barbossa's still wary.  "Ye have, an' know this:  both house an' landlady be under my protection, an' I don't care for either bein' troubled.  So don't fuss yerself;  ye'll get what ye paid for…"  
  
At that moment, the innkeeper comes in bearing a large platter piled high with chunks of roast mutton;  goes back into the kitchen, and returns with rice and thick, rich gravy.  A third trip brings an enormous bowl of roasted, herbed carrots touched with a glaze of honey;  a specialty of hers that surprises the men, who eye the vegetable with suspicion.  "Oh, come on, try them,"  she says, sitting down at her place at the behest of Barbossa's raised eyebrow, telling her that her work is now done;  that it's time for Cora to take over the serving duties.  
  
Being a man who loves sweets, and before he takes anything else, Barbossa helps himself to the carrots.  "Bit of heaven, m' dear,"  he says through his first mouthful;  and,  "Anyone fool enough t' pass these up, 'twill only leave more for me."  A wave of laughter goes around the table, as does the large carrot bowl, which is quickly emptied once the men find out how good they taste.  
  
Plates of bread and butter and chunks of sharp cheese appear, along with bottles of red wine, a pitcher of lemon water, and tankards of ale.  "Tea, anyone?"  the innkeeper asks when the main course is concluded.  "And I have oranges, if you'd like them."  
  
The other men refill their ale tankards, but Barbossa opts for a large cup of strong tea, liberally sweetened and splashed with milk.  Everyone takes an orange, and one man takes two.  Fresh home-grown fruit is a rare treat, and nobody's passing it up.  
  
The men who were complaining earlier are embarrassed, having seen with their own eyes how hard the innkeeper worked to give them such a fine meal;  and, though they will not apologize in so many words, they nod very slightly to Barbossa:  _You were right_.  
  
The lodgers disperse to their rooms to sleep or to the parlor for a smoke, and one man leaves to go in search of female company to cap off his evening.  Not being certain he won't try to sneak a woman into his room if she's not watching, the innkeeper feels she should stay up until he gets back;  something that has Barbossa thinking along different lines.  "Like what?"  she asks.  
  
"Like makin' th' wench Cora sit up t' fend off any unwanted visitors,"  he replies.  "Quite a novelty, that:  makin' her do some work."  
  
It's a sore point with him — that Cora does so little to earn her pay, while her mistress slaves from dawn 'til dusk and beyond — and the innkeeper is inclined to agree, but she's not nearly as comfortable giving orders as he is.  "I guess as the house's 'captain,' I'm not much good at bossing her around,"  she says.  
  
This bothers Barbossa not at all.  "Then _this_ captain will."  He kisses her cheek;  nibbles her earlobe.  "So it be settled:  Cora'll do th' waitin' up t'night, an' I'll make sure of it."  
  
"I have to wash the pots and plates now…"  
  
"Nay, she'll do that, too, or out she goes.  Now go lie down an' rest;  I'm weary an' have a mind t' join ye."  
  
As she climbs the stairs, the innkeeper wonders what he really wants, as it could be anything:  a short nap, a long night's sleep, quiet conversation, or the kind of wild lovemaking that has them chasing each other around the room, then burrowing under the covers and laughing like children.  Any of them, all of them;  on a normal night, she loves whatever Barbossa chooses to give.  
  
But tonight, there's something special she wants;  something she's wanted for rather awhile.  "Will you come up and talk to me?"  she asks.  
  
Barbossa cocks his head.  "'Course, sweet.  Just let me put Cora t' work, an' I'll be right there."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Barbossa is snickering by the time he enters the bedroom some fifteen minutes later.  "Told Cora she'd best quit throwin' th' stink-eye at me an' do what she's bein' paid for.  She groused some, but yer kitchen'll be clean an' yer lodger let in by hisself, 'less she really wants t' lose her position."  Seeing the innkeeper in her chemise, he pulls off everything but his shirt, then climbs onto the bed.  "So… ye've somethin' t' tell me?"  
  
"More something to ask."  
  
"All right."  Barbossa is absently rubbing the innkeeper's ankle;  runs his hand over her calf, smiling at the feel of its soft curve.  "Ask away."  
  
"Tell me who you are, Hector."  
  
More eyebrow-raising.  "Eh?"  
  
"You know everything about me, but I know so little about you;  your life before, I mean."  The innkeeper catches Barbossa's hand in her own;  gives it a kiss.  "I don't know… where do you come from?  Do you have brothers and sisters?  Who are your parents?  Is… is Barbossa even your real name?"  
  
It never occurred to him to answer any of these questions, but now that she's asked them, he sees no reason not to;  in fact, these are things he'd like her to know.  "Aye,"  he tells her.  "Barbossa's m' true name, given me by m' father, Martinho, a sailor outta Portugal.  But… let me start from th' beginning.  
  
"I were born in England, in Porthpyra, Kernow… errr…Cornwall…"  Barbossa thinks for a moment, trying to recall his birth entry in the family Bible.  "… on th' 14th of May, 1685.  Or maybe it were th' 15th of May, 1684;  whatever, I bain't rightly sure, but it's somewhere 'round there.  'Tis a little port town, is Porthpyra — mostly fishermen an' such — but there be a big business in smugglin' all sorts of goods there, too;  an' I hear tell that be how Mum met m' father."  
  
There's a soft look on Barbossa's face as he casts his memory back to things he thought he'd put away long ago.  "Mum's name were Melyor Jorey — she had long russet hair an' ohhh, what a pair of eyes 'pon her;  so blue as t' rival tide an' sky — an' Da, as I said, were called Martinho Barbossa;  a handsome bastard, as I recall."  He grimaces and rolls his eyes, about to confess to something that's bothered him all of his life.  "Too bad I didn't get his looks."  
  
"Your looks are beautiful,"  the innkeeper interrupts, for she won't have him think less of himself than she does,  "and if your mother's hair and eyes are as you say, then I see them in your own."  Then,  "Go on."  
  
Barbossa smiles, pleased at the compliment.  "Don't know as Mum's family was so happy 'bout her goin' off with a foreigner, but he married her proper an' provided for her fine;  for her, an' all of us.  Weren't rich, but we weren't scrabblin' dirt poor, neither."  
  
"Brothers?  Sisters?"  
  
"Got six sisters, wi' me right in th' middle,"  Barbossa laughs.  "M' father prob'ly thought if he just kept tryin', he'd make another son, but nay… I be th' one an' only."  He fingers a strand of the innkeeper's hair.  "I know I'm th' only son 'cos he died just after m' last sister was born.  There were a godawful monster of a blow one winter, an' th' winds an' ocean swallowed up most of Porthpyra's harbor;  Da's ship as well.  Lotta ships an' men were lost in those two days, an' it took a whack at most ev'ry building in some way or t' other, includin' our cottage."  
  
"Oh, Hector!  Hector, I'm so sorry."  
  
"Nah, don't be, darlin';  were a long, long time ago, an' we were lucky:  th' whole clan of Joreys pitched in t' help us."  There's a silence as Barbossa pushes back hard on old emotions that will serve only to upset him, and then finds the proper place to step back into his narrative.  "But I don't know as Mum quite got o'er losin' Da.  She were crazy in love with him, an' him wi' her, just like…"  He trails off, unwilling to say what he knows is true and hopes the innkeeper understands:  _Just like you an' me_.  
  
"Tell me about your sisters,"  says the innkeeper quickly, not wanting him to dwell on an unhappy memory.  "What were their names?  What did they look like?"  
  
The questions makes Barbossa grin widely.  "Ev'ry last one of th' Barbossa girls was quite bewitchin', an' it's not just me sayin' it 'cos I'm their brother, see;  not when they all took after me mother, with all shades of russet hair an' eyes from pale t' darkest blue.  If I had t' be a lone boy livin' in a houseful of women, at least they were good t' look at.    
  
"Now, their names… ye must understand,"  he begins by way of explanation,  "that English were not th' language of our household.  We spoke [Kernowek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9UaAyI-uI30) t' each other in those days, an' in that language we all were named.  Actually, me own name be a bit of a muddle, for though Mum liked th' sound of m' first one in English — Hector — Da always called me by th' Portuguese:  Heitor.  Then, I were given th' second [Kernowek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9UaAyI-uI30) name Peran for he what's th' patron saint of Cornwall;  closest _I'll_ ever get t' bein' a saint!!  So, m' sisters, in order from oldest t' youngest…"  He thinks carefully, for he'd feel foolish to get it wrong.  "They be Eseld, Jenifry, Derwa, Jowanet, Meraud, an' Chesten.  Christ, Eseld an' Jenifry fussed o'er me somethin' awful;  'twas like havin' two more mothers, but they were kind an' cared for me even so… rather like you do, only you bain't sister nor mother!"  
  
The innkeeper budges closer;  close enough that Barbossa draws her into his arms and settles down with her onto the soft plumpness of the quilt.  "I hope I'm not like a mother,"  she whispers.  
  
"No-o-o,"  he murmurs back.  "I call ye sweetheart an' lover;  motherin' ain't got nothin' t' do with it!  So, what more d' ye wish t' know?"  
  
"What became of them after you left?"  
  
Barbossa is slightly abashed at this question.  "I don't rightly know, Dove,"  he says quietly,  "for though I went back t' Porthpyra just once a long time ago — t' take on water an' get rid of some cargo or t' other — I did not call 'pon m' family, an' I ain't seen them since th' day I left home.  Seein' as what I made of m'self… mayhap it be for th' best."  
  
"Why?  Are you ashamed?"  
  
This isn't a question anyone else would dare ask, but he knows the innkeeper herself isn't ashamed of him and means only a gentle curiosity by it.  "Nay."  Barbossa takes one of her hands between both of his and studies it, drawing his long, discolored nails in circles on her palm.  "Nay, not that… but I would not wish t' cause them pain for worryin' 'bout me."  He shakes his head.  "An' they would, so best they remember only th' proud young boy who went t' sea.  'Tis long enough now that they've no doubt mourned me for bein' dead, in any case."  
  
The innkeeper doesn't say that if he returned to that little harbor, he'd probably find his mother long in her grave, and perhaps some of his sisters, too.  The look in his eyes as he speaks of them tells her that no matter how hard or indifferent he tries to appear, his heart would break if he knew it for certain, so she changes the subject to something more cheerful.  "With that many sisters, there are probably a lot of children who'd be calling you Uncle Hector!"  
  
The diversion works and Barbossa cackles.  "Aye, an' beggin' me t' crawl on th' floor, a-givin' 'em rides on me back."  
  
"I'd like to see that."  
  
A sound comes from Barbossa that's very much like a giggle over the whole idea.  "Don't know as I'm much of a one for bein' 'round children, but p'raps I might find enjoyment were they m' sisters' little 'uns."  
  
The innkeeper runs her hand through his beard and slips her thumb over his lips, willing herself to pose a question she's wondered about for a long time and to which she must know the answer.  "Do you…"  It's so hard to ask.  "Hector, do _you_ have any children?"  
  
_Good fuckin' Christ, I hope not!_   "Nay,"  Barbossa says softly, and it's the truth:  if he's left offspring behind him somewhere in the world, be it one or a dozen, no one's bothered to tell him, nor does he wish to know.  He wants to tell the innkeeper, though, that he can imagine having a fine son or fair daughter with her — that he'd find great pleasure in being called, not Uncle, but Da by any child of hers — but isn't sure how she'd feel about it.  
  
_Aren't ye, though?_ he can't help thinking.  _One look in her eyes tells me plain how much she'd welcome th' chance t' carry yer babe warm an' safe inside her_.  
  
"Nay,"  he sighs again.  "I s'pose children an' such be not for th' likes of me."  
  
"Oh."  
  
_'Oh'?_   Barbossa can hear that she's… what, hurt?  Sad?  Has he dashed a dream of hers?… and he nestles even closer, trying to show without words that, no matter what else they do or don't have, he thinks that she, all by herself, is plenty to fulfill his own dreams.  "Now, what else might ye wish me t' make known?"  he asks.  "I've lived an eventful life, an' I'll tell ye anythin' ye want."  Of course, this promise of truthfulness doesn't include letting her know of his years under the curse, nor his visit with Death, and would she even believe him if he told her?  Any assurance that he won't lie doesn't go as far as hurting or frightening her with brutal honesty.  He cares too much about her for that.  
  
Save for Sparrow and Turner, the Swann girl, and the others involved in those years, no one would know to ask anyway, so the innkeeper's questions are those any woman would inquire of a sailor and pirate:  where in the world has he traveled?  What adversaries has he faced?  What goods and treasure has he taken?  What does he like best to do on his ship?  
  
That last question is one it especially pleases Barbossa to answer.  "I can do ev'ry job on a ship, see, from that of th' lowest deckhand all th' way up.  Of many things I learned, I always liked bein' a rigger so's I might climb 'mongst the ropes t' feel th' wind an' danger most strongly, but m' favorite occupation of all be that of helmsman.  Fair weather, foul weather, a blow like t' tear us apart, no matter;  'tis where I feel closest t' the _Pearl_ as I have her do m' biddin', even if I must struggle for it."  He laughs, low and rough — the music of a scraggly tomcat at his most seductive — before he kisses her, hard.  "Sometimes as I hold ye, Dove, I feel that same way:  pressin' m' hands 'gainst ye, pullin' ye close, turnin' an' pushin' t' where I may pleasure th' both of us best…"  
  
Such talk and the innkeeper's warm closeness have excited him, and he decides there's been enough chinwagging done for the night.  "Take yer garment off, darlin',"  Barbossa whispers, pulling at the tie that holds the top of her chemise closed and dropping it from one shoulder to reveal a soft breast.  
  
Her hand goes quickly over his.  "No, I shouldn't.  I can't…"  
  
"Ye can,"  Barbossa insists.  "Please, for I wish t' see ye;  all of ye, all at once, lyin' bare an' open afore me, showin' what sweetness m' Dove offers t' delight me… an' herself."  His lips are at her neck, lightly biting, the fingers of his free hand brushing over her nipple.  "I ain't complained that ye've been a good, proper woman an' hid yerself as ye've been taught, but now… please, darlin'.  Please."  
  
The blushing innkeeper can no longer withstand Barbossa's insistent touch, nor his begging, and she nods her assent.  But she's still shy of being seen so completely, and,  "Turn your glance away, Hector.  Just for a moment."  
  
"For you?"  He gives her a crinkle-eyed smile and pinches her cheek.  "Aye, then.  But a moment only……"

 

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  To Be Continued  -oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
Postscript:  Of Names & Places & Languages  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
  


  
A detail about his name that the good captain doesn't explain, because he doesn't know it:  
  
Hector's father's surname was Barbosa, one S, pronounced like a Z (Sao Feng, of all people, pronounced it correctly).  However, due to a series of spelling errors both in church records and the family Bible, it shifted in both spelling and sound.  This was not unusual at that time when dealing with foreign names, especially when coupled with minimal literacy;  the father being the least literate in the family, so he would not have caught the misspelling.  He also wasn't around enough to keep correcting his family's mispronunciation;  thus, Hector, his mother, and his sisters always gave their surname as Barbossa, spelled with two Ss and sounded as an S.  
  
Porthpyra is the Cornish name that Hector uses for his port hometown of Polperro (he'd be referred to in English as a Polperroite);  and yes, it really was a major hub for smugglers — had been for centuries — so it was in his blood to be an outlaw.  I like to think that Martinho Barbosa spotted pretty Melyor Jorey in the marketplace, was smitten, and made her a gift of something beautiful and luxurious — perhaps a bolt of silk brocade to match her eyes — in order to begin his courtship of her.  
  
Porthpyra/Polperro, while largely Cornish-speaking, would also have been multi-lingual owing to both legitimate and smuggling trade with sailors of many nationalities.  Canon says that Hector speaks fluent Spanish — a slight bastardization of Castilian, I suspect — which would make sense given that it would probably be a lingua franca among non-English-speakers in the Americas/Islands/Iberian sailing community (the areas controlled by Sao Feng, Mistress Ching, and Sri Sumbhajee would use English when dealing with western sailors).  Likewise, he'd have a substantial amount of Portuguese —  initially from his father, and added to over the years — and probably has a smattering of dreadfully-accented Italian and French;  possibly picked up a few words of Dutch if he ever called in at what is now Cape Town.  It would be a foolish captain, especially a pirate whose crew would tend to come from all over the world, who didn't have a working knowledge of two or more languages.


	2. Hungan Nos / Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curled up in each other's arms and just before they drift off to sleep, Barbossa draws on a memory from the mists of his past and does something that surprises and delights the innkeeper: he sings her a Cornish lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember when or where I found this lullaby, but it's definitely one that would have been in the repertoire of Barbossa's mother. I'll give all the words (both Cornish and English) in the postscript; but, to begin with, all you need know is that it's about a child whose father is a long way away, facing the dangers of the sea, but that if he wishes hard enough, he'll bring his daddy safely home. I'm sure it expressed Melyor Barbossa's feelings as well.

 

 

 

 

-oOo-  
  
  


 

 

 

  
  
  
Barbossa's warm and satisfied now, and blissfully sleepy, and the joy of having made love to the innkeeper has put a smile on his face that wraps around it twice.  "Shall I tell ye something secret?"  he murmurs, smoothing the innkeeper's damp hair out of her eyes.  "I know 'tis hard t' imagine, but I were an innocent once, a long time ago — a babe, an' a little boy — who knew naught of swords nor pistols nor ship's guns, nor how men tore each other t' pieces o'er treasure or for nothin' a'tall.  All I knew…"  He sighs.  "All I knew was me Da were at sea, an' I missed him."  He's unconsciously rocking the innkeeper as though she's a baby herself.  "Mum used t' sing t' me when I were fretful;  a song t' bring m' father home."  Barbossa presses a kiss to his lover's cheek.  "Shall ye wish t' hear it, sweet?  Shall I sing ye t' sleep as she sang t' me?"  
  
Tears form in the innkeeper's eyes as he says this, for where else would Barbossa dare reveal himself like this if not bedded down with her in the darkness?  "I'd like that, Hector,"  she whispers back.  
  
Barbossa grins again, nuzzling her forehead;  then, after reaching far back in his memory to remember both the words and the soft voice of his mother, he nods to himself and begins…  
  
  
  
_"Cusk, fleghyk, cusk,_

_Ny wra Tasek dos,_

_Tewlys yn mysk,_

_Hungan nos;_

_Lorgan a dherlenter,_

_War ewon fyn,_

_Golow porth gwer,_

_Doro Tasek dhyn……"_  
  
  
  
It's not a beautiful singing voice that Barbossa has, but when relaxed and happy as he is now, it's tuneful enough, its very roughness soothing;  and that he's so hard and savage in the normal course of his life makes the unknown syllables of this gentle song that much more tender.  "Don't stop,"  the innkeeper says quietly once he's finished the verses, pulling his arms more closely around her.  "Sing it again… please?"  
  
She's fast asleep once Barbossa repeats the melody twice more, and he, too, is yawning.  "Mum would've so liked ye, Dove,"  he says to the air, allowing himself just a moment or two to consider how his life might be if he had a family of his own like the one he grew up in:  with strong sons and pretty daughters around him, and this lovely, kind woman for his wife.  "She'd approve an' tell me I chose most wisely."  
  
Then Barbossa puts these thoughts away with no small bit of sadness in the instant before he drops off to sleep, reminding himself of what he told the innkeeper:  such worthy, respectable things are not meant for the likes of him.  But just as he closes his eyes, he says softly — in English paraphrase of his lullaby's words and half-hoping she just might hear him —  "Make it yer wish t' bring me home, sweet Dove.  Though I'll e'er be roamin' an' tossed in th' deep, yer wish'll always bring me home."  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
FIN  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
Postscript:  Hungan Nos / Lullaby Text  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

This is the lullaby that Melyor Barbossa sang to her little Hector to soothe him when he was a restless little boy crying for his father.  The tune — I wish I could put it here — is a very simple one, no more difficult than that of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.  
  
  
—  
  
_Cusk, fleghyk, cusk_   (Sleep, baby, sleep),  
_Ny wra Tasek dos_   (Dad is not nigh),  
_Tewlys yn mysk_ (Tossed in the deep),  
_Hungan nos_   (Lullaby);  
_Lorgan a dherlenter_   (Moon shining bright),  
_War ewon fyn_   (On dancing foam),  
_Golow porth gwer_   (Green harbour light),  
_Doro Tasek dhyn_   (Bring Daddy home).  
  
—  
  
_Cusk, fleghyk, cusk_   (Sleep, baby, sleep),  
_Dhe ves Tasek eth_   (Dad is away),  
_Tewlys yn mysk_   (Tossed in the deep),  
_Bys an jeth_   (Looking for day);  
_Pyskessa yn hans_   (Catching the fish),  
_Ow nyja hep fyn_   (That ever roam),  
_Collanow dha whans_   (Fulfill your wish),  
_Doro Tasek dhyn_   (Bring Daddy home).  
  
—  
  
_Cusk, fleghyk, cusk_   (Sleep, baby, sleep),  
_'ma Tasek a bell_   (Dad is afar),  
_Tewlys yn mysk_   (Tossed in the deep),  
_Steren y whel_   (Watching a star);  
_An ardar gwra sewya_   (Follow the plough),  
_Wortu an lyn_   (To anchor stone),  
_Dha vynnas gwra_   (Make a wish now),  
_Doro Tasek dhyn_ (Bring Daddy home).


End file.
